


What Goes Up Must Come Down

by QuantumDippinDots



Series: A Long Time Ago... [1]
Category: Wooden Overcoats
Genre: Action Undertaker, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 08:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14101830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuantumDippinDots/pseuds/QuantumDippinDots
Summary: A long time ago, a certain fellow had some business in a lovely clifftop monastery northeast of Kalambaka...Based on the premise that before Chapman came to Piffling, he was an Action Undertaker for MI6.





	What Goes Up Must Come Down

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the Peneus valley there sits a cliff. Atop the cliff there sits a monastery. Usually, the cliffs below the monastery loom bare over the valley below. Today, the cliffs weren’t bare.

Today, a pair of figures were climbing down the cliff face. Or rather, upon closer inspection, a single figure was climbing down the cliff face. The other was strapped to the climber’s back, flopping around and being absolutely no help at all. But even with a corpse strapped to his back, the climber was making quick work of it.

Halfway down the cliff face, the climber stopped and stiffened. He surveyed the valley sprawling below him, first left, then right, and, with a sigh, reached down the front of his shirt to retrieve a small metal case. He kept his hold on the cliff with his left hand and entered the case’s combination with the right. It clicked open. There sat a line of small, white pills. The man stared at the pills in his hand - lifted the case to his mouth – tapped a single pill onto his tongue. He squeezed his eyes shut. He swallowed.

“Mmm. Claritin Clear,” the man said to himself, flicking a strand of blond hair out of his eyes.

 

“And there I was, an enemy agent trying to knock out my pinions four hundred feet up in the air-”

A small knot had formed around the mini-bar, watching the handsome black haired man try to split his attention between his story and his martini. Near the doorway, a smaller group watched from afar.

“Sounds like quite a job,” a woman in the door group said.

“Oh, we took out the trash. Quite a tussle. Lots of priceless medieval artifacts ruined. Blood absolutely everywhere when 41 and I got there,” a blond man replied, gesturing to the woman next to him.

“Ah, that’s a shame,” said a man leaning on the door frame.

“And so I was just stabbing him and stabbing him-” the black haired man waved his hands, sloshing his martini.

“So much for celebrating. It looks like it will be a while before we can get a shot in at those drinks,” the first woman said, eying the agents clustered around the bar.

“It’s always like this.”

“Are they still messing around with the leftovers?” Another man asked.

“Last I heard psych was doing analysis on his tattoos. There’s a big one dedicated to his mother on his left thigh and apparently it’s rife with symbolism,” said 41.

“It was up there with that German commissar with the tramp stamp that we got a while back,” said the blond man.

“Oh, that one was good.”

“And that’s not all,” the blond man went on. “GI tract analysis showed that, while the surveillance agent on him said his last meal was souvlaki and ouzo at a bar in Kalambaka, it was _really_ caviar, borscht, and vodka. Probably on Petrov’s yacht. We got a double agent out of this one.”

“Well done, mate!”

“Nice.”

“And I still was under par!” Over at the mini-bar, the crowd of agents burst into peals of laughter.

 

After the rest of the cleaning crew operatives had dispersed, and the agents had trooped off to find themselves a proper bar, CC-41 and CC-42 investigated the mini-bar. Supplies were running low.

“Sorry, love, it doesn’t get restocked until the morning shift,” a janitor was wheeling a vacuum towards them. CC-42 had always wondered when she would retire – she was hunched and tiny, with wispy gray hair, and he had once seen her nod off at the vacuum.

“Oh, no bother,” 42 responded.

“That was some story, wasn’t it, dearie?” The janitor said. “I do like him, such a patriotic boy.”

“Oh, yes. Actually, I did clean up for the op. Tidied up, took the enemy back to the lab and such. Getting blood out of frescoes really is quite a pain.”

“Such a brave young lad. Did you hear the part about the stabbing?”

“Yes.”

“And he looks just like Hoagy Carmicheal.”

“Who?” CC-42 tried to remember who Hoagy Carmicheal was The janitor pushed her vacuum back and forth, staring at the wall, ignoring the man’s inquiry.

“C’mon, 42. Celebrate. Pub. Now. Pale ale on me.” The woman said.

“Alright then, you’ve got yourself a deal. Do you know who Hoagy Carmicheal is?”

“I haven’t the faintest.”

And so, CC-41 and CC-42 went to celebrate a job well done at the local pub, where they would get slightly drunker than they indented and argue violently about Hoagy Carmicheal and the various merits of Greek cuisine.


End file.
